


neither do we

by sapphee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things (kind of), Asian American Characters, Diaspora Child Guilt, Diaspora Feels, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8294857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphee/pseuds/sapphee
Summary: Chowder sniffs. "What do you do when you can't sleep?""Draw?" Lardo says wryly. "What about you?""I don't," Chowder says miserably. "The first night in a new place is always spent tossing and turning, and usually I'd just deal with the lack of sleep the next day, but we have practice tomorrow. I've tried everything.""Nothing has ever worked?""Well," Chowder hesitates. "There was one thing."[Lardo paints Chowder's back to help him fall asleep.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lardo/Chowder is like...my One True Rarepair, for which I have the lack of Asian American couples/characters in general in media to thank. I projected very hard on Chowder as I am like him in that I am a 2nd gen Chinese American (who also loves Lardo). This is like the very first time that I've been able to bring in my experiences so extensively into fic??? So I am very proud and happy???????/
> 
> This also started out as an hc and then I suddenly spent all night writing it instead of sleeping and preparing for job stuff I have to do later today. Whooooooooooooooooooooops.
> 
> All the moments mentioned here are ones that I experienced at college. Also please let me know if anything here related to Lardo and her cultural background are inaccurate so that I can change it asap. 
> 
> Anyway - updates on other things: I still have I think one more hc that I want to turn into a fic, uploading corrections for the hockey science stuff, and then trying to do another multi chapter thing. Hopefully listing it like this helps keep me accountable.
> 
> Thank you to Ngozi for Check Please, and I hope you enjoy!

It's late. After a flight and Uber ride that took entirely too long to get to Samwell, a solid two hours mediating between Nursey and Dex, and then another three hours putting away all of his stuff in his new room, Chowder is exhausted.

But he still can't fall asleep.

He has trouble sleeping in new places, he knows this. But it's the Haus. He's napped on the couch many times. He knows the sounds that the Haus makes. He knows the way it moves at the lightest footstep (goodness, this place is a piece of shit).

But his brain is overtired, and his body is overly attuned to how the Haus creaks and sways at the slightest breeze, even though it's still August. The Haus doesn't so much as settle as it inhales and exhales violently shaky breaths in no discernible pattern.

Chowder would match his breathing to it if he weren't completely terrified.

A strong wind sends a branch at the window, the smack loud enough to stop his heart for at least two seconds. Chowder stays curled up on his side for just one more moment before he's out of bed, feet automatically slipping into his slippers and bounding toward the bathroom. He locks the door on his side, as if it will keep the sounds out. Splashing water on his face, he catches his reflection in the mirror. He's ridiculous.

As he reaches for his face towel, his eyes land on the other bathroom door, the one that leads to Lardo's room. There's a sliver of light coming in through the crack. He pauses, hand on the knob. It's unlocked, he knows; they agreed to keep both doors to the bathroom unlocked unless someone's using it. But Lardo doesn't seem like the kind of person who likes being bothered when she's not expecting to be.

But.

The Haus shudders again.

Chowder knocks.

"Yeah?"

Chowder peeks in to see Lardo in the most adorable duck onesie, sitting on her bed and surrounded by oil pastels. She's taken an earbud out of her ear, her eyebrow perfectly raised.

"I couldn't sleep?" His hand goes to the back of his neck, and he's aware he sounds ridiculous. He's twenty years old. He should be able to deal with it by himself. "And I saw you were still up?"

"I'm not the one who has to be on the ice at seven in the morning tomorrow. Today."

"You still have to be at Faber," he points out. "Also, that's the cutest thing I've ever seen, and I have shark pajamas, complete with fins. Did you get it in kids' size?"

"Tell anyone, and I'll have to kill you. And ugh, I hate that you're right. I just wanted to draw, but I don't know what," Lardo admits. "You could try some of the tea Bitty brought. It's in the kitchen."

Chowder lets out a horrified gasp, just as Lardo realizes what just came out of her mouth. They both wince because Lipton tea is no tea at all, especially for _them_.

"It's late," she says as an excuse. She almost sounds like she's whining. "I don't know what I'm saying sometimes."

"I'm holding that against you forever," Chowder sniffs. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"

"Draw?" Lardo says wryly. "What about you?"

"I don't," Chowder says miserably. "The first night in a new place is always spent tossing and turning, and usually I'd just deal with the lack of sleep the next day, but we have practice tomorrow. I've tried everything."

"Nothing has ever worked?"

"Well," Chowder hesitates. "There was one thing. But it's been years since my mom did that, and I don't want you to think you—"

"As your manager," Lardo starts. She doesn't have to say anything else.

"My mom used to stroke my back. She'd make these sweeping motions across my spine," Chowder says, his hands absentmindedly going through the motions. He almost looks like he's conducting an orchestra. "She'd do different patterns. Diagonals one way, then in reverse."

Lardo looks thoughtful. "I have body paint and brushes. Your skin sensitive?"

"You really don't—"

"I still want to draw," she reminds him. "You're helping me, too."

"Um. Okay. Thank you." He looks around. "Where...?"

Lardo slides off her bed, slipping her feet into slippers, too. They're purple, like her cat pencilcase, and identical to Chowder's own teal rubber ones. Chowder had once asked her where she got them because he'd forgotten to bring some, and she'd bought them in Chinatown one weekend. "Your room?"

He follows her to his room, watching how she seamlessly slips into manager mode, still in her bright yellow duck onesie, how she loses all traces of fatigue in her posture. The shift is almost imperceptible, the transformation sleek and shiny as a groomed black cat.

"You can take off your shirt completely or just roll it up to your armpits," she tells him.

He chooses the latter and lies on his bed.

"Gonna deprive me of the prime real estate that is your shoulders, Chow?"

"Mama always says to cover your shoulders when you're sleeping," Chowder says wisely, not to be chirped. "Elbows, knees, shoulders, and stomach. Keep those warm, and you won't get cold."

Chowder smiles widely at the sound of her huff, because fuck, her mom says that, too.

"Any requests?"

"Mm, no," he says, already feeling a bit sleepy, just from the familiarity of the position. "Thanks, Lardo."

"I think I'll draw a dick."

"Lardo!" It's a weak protest, but he doesn't move. The bristles are soft on his skin, the paint a bit too cool for his skin. The first stroke sends a jolt to his system, and Lardo pulls his comforter to the part of his back that's not being painted on at the moment.

Her fingers press down near his tailbone to hold him in place, her brush sweeping across his spine, following the natural lines of his musculature. She keeps the layers thin because she doesn't want to dry out his skin too much; she's suddenly glad for his height because his back is enough to keep her busy for a while.

Lardo only looks up when she notices that Chowder has stopped quivering whenever her brush catches on a particularly sensitive spot on his back. His back is a mix of pastel purples and blues. A cosmos. It shimmers, even in the dim light that Chowder's lamp offers. He really has to replace the bulb soon.

She takes a folder from his desk and fans his back, running a finger down his spine to check that the paint's all dry, before taking a picture. Then she gently tugs his shirt back down, during which he wakes momentarily. "Lardo?"

"I'm done. Go back to sleep," she whispers, helping him flip over. She grabs his comforter and covers his elbows, knees, stomach, and shoulders. She also makes a note to help him put on some lotion after he washes it off and does not think about the way he'd looked at her in that moment: content and warm, pleased and sleepy. Wanting.

But of what, she doesn't know.

—

Next time, she actually does draw a dick. Chowder is not pleased, but he also can't argue, since he had declined again to make a request.

It stretches along his spine and is a pretty accurate rendering; she has Ransom confirm that it looks like it belongs in one of Samwell's sex ed brochures.

"I couldn't sleep, and he let me," Lardo shrugs, when Ransom asks. He then gets her to paint his and Holster's backs, too. Holster gets a bottle of beer. Ransom, Sriracha.

She's going to miss this, she thinks, as she watches them ogle her work in the mirror.

—

"I don't know why I can't sleep," Lardo wonders aloud, as she works on a sunset. She's moved on to painting a boat, straddling his back and hunched over to paint a duck on the flag.

"And this helps?" he asks sleepily.

Her brush stops in the middle of bringing a wave to life. Chowder turns his head to look at her.

"Yeah," she says. "Why else would I be doing it?"

—

"Cait and I broke up," Chowder says, while she works on creating a "Fish are Friends, Not Food" propaganda poster. Mostly, that just means that she's using a super thin make-up brush and a stencil to tickle him even more than she usually does. "Can I make a request next time?"

"Yeah, if you remember. You okay?"

"Mm, yeah. We wanted to focus on school. Still friends."

The next morning, after his post-practice shower, she squirts lotion in his armpit. He shrieks, clutching at his armpit, trying to warm it up as much as possible, before spreading it to his back the best he can.

She watches him struggle for a minute before taking pity on him. He grins at her, guileless and happy.

—

She was foolish for choosing to major in art. She is not going to have a job after graduation. How could she do this to her parents, when they came all this way for her?

"See, that's not fair. You didn't ask them to do that. They can't insist that you owe it to them for coming here. _Have_ they?"

"Like they needed to. It shows whenever they're asking me about my future plans." Lardo snorts. "As if you don't feel the same way about your parents."

"We're not talking about me." Chowder shifts, causing his pajama pants to slide dangerously low on his hips. He adjusts them. "Sorry!"

"But you know the feeling."

"Yeah. How do people _not_ go through life feeling like they owe their parents everything for giving up their lives to start new ones here?" Chowder exhales. "Hey, Lardo?"

"Hm?"

"Can I request something?"

"Next time," she promises. "You ever get tired of white liberals?"

"Shitty?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I just want him to shut up, you know? Except he's too busy white-mansplaining how I feel about not meeting parental expectations and not being able to fulfill my familial responsibilities to even notice."

"That sucks." A pause. "I don't think I'm ever going to be fluent in Cantonese. I never want to go to Guangzhou or Hong Kong, not even to visit. I would be happy to live near a Chinatown here for the rest of my life, no matter how small it is. I shouldn't have told Haley that because now my parents blame me for her not having any interest in learning about our culture."

"But... it's not your culture if you don't see yourself that way. You're not Chinese; you're Chinese American. That's a whole other thing!"

"I don't fit the way I'm supposed to. Sometimes I think about how my mom was sent to the fields and how my grandma smuggled my dad to Hong Kong but then he was brought back to China and sent to work in the factories and what they must have imagined their future children to be like." Chowder sighs. "I am not the son they expected or wanted to have. They got married because they wanted to have Chinese children, but they got me instead. Someone who looks Chinese but is failing the class and who doesn't know the first thing about Chinese holidays or even the names of Chinese vegetables he eats every day. Well, used to. The dining halls have ruined bokchoy for me forever."

"You don't know that. Have you ever asked?"

"Like I ever needed to. It shows whenever they're asking me about how I'm doing in my Chinese class."

"I walked into that one."

"Mhm." Lardo can see the corner of his smile. She reluctantly adds one last stroke to his back and starts cleaning up.

"What were you painting this time?"

"First, it was going to be a duck, but then the proportions got weird," she says, conveniently omitting the fact that she'd messed it up on purpose. It'd just felt like she was... branding him, marking him as hers, which was an alarming thought that was going to be repressed forever. "Now it's Barry."

Chowder groans. "Is it the Barry I am thinking of."

Once she determines that the paint is dry, she taps his shoulder, and he turns, so that he's lying on his back, still shirtless. She grins. "Probably."

Chowder twists an arm backward, searching for his shirt. "Lardo, I _hate Bee Movie_ ," he says plaintively.

Lardo shakes her head as she watches him sleepily put his arms through the shirt, so that he's wearing it backward. "Come on, get up."

"Noooooo."

"Sorry for painting the bee who dated a human woman on your back. I'm going to help you put it on."

He slowly gets up, blinking deliberately to stay awake, as he shakes his head when she tries to put his arms through. "I can do it," he says quietly. "Don't want you to think you have to do everything now."

"As if." She knocks his hands away, though, when they fail to button his shirt properly. "Hey," she says almost tenderly, her hand cupping his cheek, his eyes peeking from under his long eyelashes and meeting hers head-on. "Thanks for that. Not that I—either of us—will stop feeling that guilt, but... it's nice to be reminded that someone else gets it."

She packs up her paints quickly like she always does. He's unusually quiet. Usually, they continue talking a bit—Chowder likes to play Twenty Questions to figure out what her painting looks like before he sees it for himself in the mirror the next morning.

Lardo turns around to see Chowder still sitting up. The only change in his position is the hand to his cheek, and her stomach drops as she replays the last few minutes.

"Good night," she says calmly, and runs.

—

"Chowder, you know I'm not Chinese," Lardo had said patiently. "When you asked me to show you Chinatown, was that because you assumed I'd know because I'm Asian?"

"Sorry!" Chowder had exclaimed, giving her a guilty smile. "And because you're from Boston? Sorry, it just—it sounded better in my head. I wasn't—"

"You free this Saturday? We can get something to eat first before hitting the supermarket."

Chowder had looked at her like she hung the moon. "Oh, Lardo!!"

—

"I got you boba from the Asian Students Union fundraiser," Chowder had said. 

"You wasted your money," Lardo had said flatly. "I'd offer to pay you back, but you did this to yourself."

"It can't be that bad," Chowder had said, before taking a sip. He made a face and handed her a purple straw, bumping her foot with his gently. "I'm not suffering through this alone."

—

"Oh, gosh, it's been so long since I got to eat bokchoy! And they're serving lo mein!" Chowder had said. Sure, it had been cut oddly, but he couldn't be picky.

Lardo had taken one look and grabbed pizza and a salad.

Chowder had taken one bite and nearly gagged, before going back to the counter and reading the ingredients list.

_Bokchoy: seasoned with salt, pepper, and soy sauce. Chicken lo mein: chicken, bamboo shoots, lo mein noodles, soy sauce, cilantro, carrots, broccoli, and ginger._

_"_ Mein literally means noodles," Chowder had said forlornly. "They're serving noodle noodles. I made a mistake coming here. Also—salt, pepper, _why_."

"You should've been here last year when they had a 'phở' station one day, dude. Bland broth, one thick slice of beef, and spaghetti," Lardo had said. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"I miss home," Chowder said. "It's only been three weeks into freshman year, and I miss home."

—

They had started to go out to Boston every few weeks, just the two of them. Sometimes Lardo brought him home, to introduce him to Vietnamese food beyond phở. Sometimes they went into Chinatown to stock up on frozen dumplings and starfruit. Either way, it was always just the two of them, and Chowder had started to wonder.

—

"It sucks that they don't have anything for Tết here, too," Chowder had said. "You'd think that with all their talk about not generalizing Asians to be one homogenous group that ASU wouldn't call this event Pan Asian Lunar New Year and then only have Chinese food and decorations and stuff. Not that that was the greatest event name ever."

Lardo had shrugged. "There just aren't enough students to form Chinese or Korean or Vietnamese Students Associations here, so ASU has to do all the Asian-related stuff. Including planning Lunar New Year celebrations. And let's face it, most of the Asian students here are of Chinese descent, so it makes sense. At least there's free food."

They watched as the white people stuck their heads through the holes of a cardboard cut-out depicting a person in a cheongsam and another person with a queue at the photo booth station that ASU had set up.

—

Lardo has poor circulation in her feet and hands. Surprising, because her hands are constantly in motion. Annoying, because she always forgets to put on socks when she's in the Haus, because she only ever wears slippers in the Haus (some habits never die), and she hates wearing socks when she's in her slippers.

Ransom and Holster are always too busy snuggling with each other, and she doesn't want to get in on it because she's tiny and just wants warm feet, not bruised ribs. Bitty's the walking equivalent of an ice cube, and Nursey and Dex are... well. She doesn't know what they are, but that's not something she wants to get in on, either.

Chowder, though. Chowder is acutely aware of his ability to shed heat, even in the fall, so he wears soft, warm sweatpants all the time. Does she want to keep her silence, like she has been for the past week, or does she want warm toes?

She sticks her toes under his right leg. He jumps, but doesn't move away, just continues typing.

—

She shows up at his door for the first time in ten days. "Could I..."

Chowder nods, lies down on his stomach, and pushes his shirt up. She can't help but notice that he hasn't done that all month for their earlier painting sessions.  
She's just dipped her brush into her paint when he asks, "Can I make a request?"

"Next time?" She can't deal with this right now.

"You've said that before," he says, and his voice is so void of energy and volume that she almost doesn't catch it at first.

"How do I even know that I can do it? Fulfill your request?"

"You could ask and find out."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Lardo shifts. "It'll be disappointing."

Chowder tugs his shirt back down, and odd, Lardo hadn't realized that she'd had a hand on his back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Can you go now?"

—

Chowder is doing homework in the kitchen when Lardo comes in and tosses a mooncake at him. One hand flies up to catch it, even as he continues to glare at his laptop screen. "Mooncake?"

"From your favorite bakery. Did you forget that Mid-Autumn Festival was today?"

He looks at her oddly, slowly ripping open the wrapper. "Yeah. Thank you."

She turns to go. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

"Wait." He grabs the plastic knife that came with the mooncake and starts cutting it into quarters. "You're meant to share these—"

"Yeah, I know. I celebrate it, too, remember?"

"—with people you care about." He looks at her. "Friends and family and everyone."

"I recommend that you take your piece before you set it free in the Haus, then," she says. She comes over and takes a piece and dares to ruffle his hair with her other hand, which she hasn't done in a long while. Her hand stays in his hair for too long, though, and she finds herself gently pushing his head closer to her. After a second's hesitation, he leans against her stomach.

"Really, thank you," Chowder says, as he munches on it quietly. He'd picked the piece with the least egg yolk, she notices. She makes a note to get the ones with the nuts and no egg yolk for him next time.

Next time?

"When did you, uh. Start thinking about making a request," she asks.

"Maybe halfway through last year? It was just a little unrequited crush? I was okay with that. I knew the crush wasn't going to go anywhere, so I accepted it and went on with life. I mean, I'd been dating Cait and it wasn't like I was with her to get over you or anything. Then Cait and I split because we both wanted more time to ourselves. And then this year I thought you and I were going in some sort of direction? I'm sorry I made a move. It was wildly inappropriate of me."

Lardo exhales. "I'm just not good at... fulfilling requests. Not disappointing people."

"I think I've proven that I'm not good at fulfilling requests, either. And that I excel at disappointing people."

"Ugh," Lardo makes a face. "That's another two dollars into the diaspora child guilt jar from both of us."

"Yeah," Chowder agrees. "But. I think. You would be good at fulfilling mine. I just want you as you are, if you want me, too." He's speaking into her hoodie. "You might not feel the same way, but. I think you feel more like home than I've felt anywhere else."

—

"Any requests?"

"Hm," Chowder pretends to consider, when they both know he's been sitting on this for weeks. "A shark and a duck."

"How do you want them?"

"Sort of like the way the crocodile and the bird are?"

"So you want the shark to eat the duck. Nice metaphor for our relationship."

"No!! It'd be, like, a symbiotic relationship. The shark isn't going to eat the duck for helping, though I gather the duck might gouge out the shark's eye if someone discovered that the duck owns and regularly wears a footed onesie."

"Funny. So you want the duck to do what, help the shark get food out of its teeth? How would that even work? Ducks stay at the surface of the water, while sharks definitely do not."

"Lardoooooo."

"I'm just saying, it doesn't map as neatly as you've evidently been imagining."

He stretches a hand behind him to encircle her wrist. She moves her wrist so that their fingers can touch and their hands can be clasped together, and he smiles, big and joyful. Full of sunshine. "And neither do we."

**Author's Note:**

> Omgcp blog: omgcphee  
> 


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